


Know All Your Favourite Spots

by rogue_pixie88



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_pixie88/pseuds/rogue_pixie88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James might have had a terrible day, but Michael is there to make it better for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know All Your Favourite Spots

**Author's Note:**

> Written for avictoriangirl, because she's awesome.

The second he steps through the front door Michael knows something is wrong. James doesn't reply to his greeting, even though the hum of the TV and the shoes thrown unusually haphazard by the door tell him that James is home. With a slight shake of his head, Michael hangs his keys on their hook and leaves his shoes tidily beside James', not feeling up to the row it might start if James is in the foul mood he expects.

James is laid back most of the time, completely easy-going, but when he's upset, the slightest things add to his ire. It's a facet of his personality Michael has learned to avoid and/or diffuse if the situation calls for it in their years together, and he can only wonder which it will be tonight.

Sprawled across the sofa and staring mindlessly at whatever episode of _Star Trek_ is playing is where Michael finds James—yet another sign he's in need of cheering up. Only when Michael grasps his ankle and shakes him gently does he seem to snap to attention, jumping in such a way that Michael might have considered comical were it not for the downtrodden look on James' face.

Recovering quickly, James musters up a welcoming smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes or hide the tiredness there, but Michael takes it for what it is. "Hey. I didn't hear you come in."

"Tough day?" Michael lifts James' legs and sits in the space they leave, rolling his eyes when James promptly throws them back across his lap.

"The worst," James tells him with a heavy sigh. "I knew I should've stayed in bed this morning."

Michael's hand traces a path down James' leg, the denim of his jeans rough under Michael's fingertips, moving over muscle until he reaches James' ankle. James wriggles a little at the touch, hating after so long together that Michael knows each and every one of his weaknesses. Regardless, he presses on in his quest to provide a little comfort.

"I did tell you," Michael replies, just the safe side of smug to escape any reprimand from James.

"I was running late as it was. Had I stayed in bed and let you have your wicked way, then they wouldn't have seen me 'til lunch." It looks to Michael as if James is trying very hard to appear mad. His face is set, eyes narrowed for effect, but the stern line of his mouth twitches as he fights to keep up his act.

"You say that like it's a bad thing, James. It sounds like a shag this morning might've changed the outlook of your day," he teases, quick to dodge the playful punch James sends his way. Soberly now, "So what happened?"

"It wasn't one thing—or even anything major. Just everything seemed to conspire against me."

Letting his head fall back against the sofa, Michael looks at James imploringly. "Tell me."

Michael listens intently, hands still working over the sore arches of James' feet, as James tells a colourful tale of late trains and spilled coffee; mislaid scripts and misunderstandings with co-workers; and the sheer relief of finally coming home to a safe and familiar space.

Silence falls between them once James has finished speaking, not so much because they've already run out of things to say, more that they're perfectly comfortable to let the quiet reign. Michael even lets James watch the rest of his show without teasing him for being geek or making fun of his slightly worrying crush on Captain Kirk.

When the credits finally (God, _finally_ ) roll over that black screen, Michael draws James' attention with a pat to his knee, letting his hand linger. "Why don't you go have a quick soak in the tub? You look like you could do with it."

James uses the remote to switch the TV off, turning to Michael with an inquisitive look on his face. "Are you saying I smell?"

"I was trying to be polite about it, James, but yeah. Hey!" Michael seizes James' leg to stop him from sharply digging his heel into his thigh again.

"Fucker."

"Just shut up and do as you're told. I'll get something together for dinner."

"Bossy," James chides, but gets up anyway.

Michael watches him walk away, appreciative of the jeans James decided to wear today, and thinking rather immaturely how much better they'd look on their bedroom floor. "Maybe the hot water will clear your head and help you move on from one word answers."

The response he gets to that is significantly less than one word, and far less polite, but Michael lets it slide, charmed by the smile James bestows upon him before he disappears to start the water running.

After a quick root through the kitchen, weighing what they actually have in the cupboards against his own exhaustion, Michael settles on soup for dinner, accompanied by the rest of the bread their neighbour baked for them yesterday. Good, hearty comfort food he knows will have James feeling like his usual energetic self in no time.

"You know," James begins, head and shoulders peaking around the open fridge door, as Michael rifles through it, "you could always come join me."

Michael closes the door, leaning against it with his elbow, head cradled in his palm. With his free hand he gestures the table. "And what about dinner?"

James shrugs. Rather than let his words convince Michael, he resorts to dirty tactics: he grasps the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift move that leaves his hair a mess and his body on display. The tempting view is soon blocked when James' balled up shirt smacks Michael in the face, subsequently dropping to the floor.

 _How about joining me now?_ that smirk of his asks Michael.

Enticing as the proposition is, and as much as he'd love to take James up on his offer, Michael resists the need to have wet skin under his hands, under his lips. Proud of his willpower to endure James' playful seduction, he shakes his head. "Get lost. Your cheap tricks don't work on me, McAvoy."

It's quite possibly the biggest lie Michael's ever told; had he been as unaffected as he likes to pretend, he and James certainly wouldn't be where they are now. Well, they probably would be, although Michael posits it would have taken a lot longer for them to get their act together.

"Your loss then."

"I'm sure I'll get over it," Michael mutters jokingly to himself, as James heads to the bathroom. Well, mostly jokingly. With a sigh, Michael shakes his head.

*

Dinner is ready and the table is set, save for the cutlery, when a familiar weight settles on Michael's back. Soap and the smell of freshly cleaned clothes fill his nose. He glances down in time to see James' fingers lace across his stomach.

Craning his neck a little, Michael is able to look at James out the corner of his eye. "Feel better?"

"Mm," James hums, standing on his toes to prop his chin on Michael's shoulder. "A little."

In a quick move, Michael finds himself face to face with James and able to take in his appearance. His skin still has a wet sheen to it; the collar of his worn t-shirt ( _Michael's_ t-shirt because James isn't exactly a fan of Iron Maiden, but he appreciates the sight too much to say) clings, and small curls of damp hair stick to his forehead. A shared look communicates their intent, and the two of them seem to melt into one another, pressing ever closer when Michael curves his arm around James' back.

They kiss lazily for several minutes, bodies moving gently against each other as they say a proper hello after their long day apart. James has his hands buried in Michael's hair, his fingers matching the rhythm of his hips. Michael, meanwhile, has a firm grip on James' waist. His hands occasionally stray under the hem of James' shirt and trace random patterns on the flesh he finds there. James squirms, half from pleasure, half from torment, when Michael brushes the small of his back, fighting the laugh that threatens to burst from him.

Michael is perfectly aware of what that spot does to him, and still insists on teasing him relentlessly. With James like this, willing and responsive in his arms, it'd be easy to take this further. But Michael has a plan here, a general idea of things that should be done to make James feel like himself again. He can't stick to it if James insists on clouding his head with his kisses.

Loathe as he is to do it, Michael seizes his opportunity when James releases his mouth, trailing his lips in the direction of Michael's neck. "Dinner will get cold."

James looks at him from under his lashes, pulling away just enough to say, "You say that like it's a bad thing, Michael."

"No using my words against me," Michael scolds with a laugh. "Come on. I'm starving."

Any complaints James might have had disappear with his first spoonful of soup. He lets out a content noise, sinking back into his chair.

"Good?" Michael asks, pulling his bread apart to dip into his soup.

"Perfect," James replies. "Although—" here, he points his spoon at Michael, "—shouldn't I be doing this for you? You're the one who's worked all day. I spent an hour and a half on the sofa before you got home."

"Next time, you can do this for me. Fair enough? I'll lounge around while you cater to my every need."

James arches an eyebrow suggestively; a smirk pulls at his mouth. "Every need, Michael? What?" he continues, expression as innocent as he can manage, when Michael stares at him. He leans forward, smirk still firmly in place—so impish that Michael desperately wants to make it disappear with well-placed hands and lips. "You said a shag was what I needed this morning."

"And now I'm saying you need to eat." Michael ignores James' mutterings about mixed signals, returning his attention to the bowl in front of him.

While they finish their food—in between James reaching across the table to snag the rest of Michael's bread and Michael pretending to tell him off for it—Michael amuses James with the ins and outs of his own day. Nothing more than small, insignificant stories, filled with details Michael wouldn't bother sharing with anyone but James. He adds an embellishment here and there, just to see James smile more.

It's worth it. By the time Michael has finished and their bowls are empty, James is laughing hard and clutching at his sides.

"Man," says James, still chuckling, as he and Michael leave the dishes by the sink, "I really needed that."

"Good food tends to have that effect."

Michael feels James' eyes on him as he sets about clearing the table, following his every move keenly and letting out a low whistle when Michael bends over to pick a spoon from the floor. It's enough to feel self-conscious because of James' tendency to stare at him as if he's the only one who matters in the world, and it's stupid because Michael has been on the receiving end of that kind of devotion for so long now. He should be used to it. He should stop being so surprised that he gets to have someone like James.

"Don't sell yourself short; the company wasn't bad either."

Michael glows at the praise and doesn't bother to hide the force of his smile. James returns it easily, gesturing Michael towards him. They stand, their fronts pressed together, as Michael's arms bracket James' waist, effectively pinning him to the counter. "How about you leave those and come join me in bed?"

"And leave the dishes all over the side, making this huge mess?" Michael shakes his head. "Are you sure about that, James?"

"They can wait until tomorrow. Come to bed."

"Demanding, aren't you?"

James shrugs. "You've got this whole _make me feel better_ thing going on, I thought I'd give you some pointers on what'd help you do that."

Raising a brow, Michael asks, "Pointers?"

"Mmm-hmm." James slides his hand down the curve of Michael's back and slips in into back pocket of his jeans. He squeezes gently, face filled with suggestions.

Faced with that, Michael is powerless to resist any longer. And why should he? If James wants a little physical comfort, then Michael isn't going to deny him that.

Without so much as a backward glance at the mess in the kitchen, Michael takes the hand James offers and follows him down the hall to their room. Once inside, Michael allows James to sit him on the bed's edge, grinning when James settles himself on Michael's thighs, knees either side of his hips.

For all of his previous impatience, James kisses him slow and soft, one hand curled around his neck while the other toys with the buttons on his shirt. Sitting the way they are, Michael can do little more than support James' precarious perch with a palm curled around his hip and splayed flat across the small of his back. Somewhere between door to their room and their bed, James had lost his shirt, leaving Michael free to relish the feel of James under his hands, warm and smooth.

A small _oof_ escapes Michael's lips when his back finally hits the bed, air rushing from between his lips as James' elbow accidentally jabs him in the ribs.

"Ow." He relinquishes James' hip and rubs the injured spot with his freed hand. "Watch your elbows, would you?"

"Sorry."

"Just be careful where you put them."

"I'll kiss it better for you," James tells him sweetly. He dips his head so that his parted lips hover above Michael's stomach. A hot puff of breath across his bare skin sends shivers dancing up and down Michael's spine. As James presses open-mouthed kisses to the spots his elbows found, a small portion of Michael's brain manages to focus on something other than how amazing it feels.

Michael remembers sex with James as filled with a lot less of these fumbling bumps and knocks. As of late, they could both be accused of neglecting their relationship and have no way to defend themselves. They've tried their best with their often conflicted schedules, but maybe they could try harder to spend more time doing things that matter—not just sex, but everything else too. Time apart seems to have robbed them of their usual coordination, and they've reverted back to how they were to begin with: out of sync and unsure of each others habits.

And Michael doesn't like that at all.

With that thought in mind, Michael captures James' attention with a soft intonation of his name, and the switches their positions, flipping them over effortlessly. Laid out beneath him, James looks back, expression curious.

"Everything okay?" Shifting slightly, James is able to free his arm enough to cup Michael's cheek in his palm. Michael leans into the gesture, pressing a kiss into James' skin. With a nod, he banishes those particular thoughts; here and now is important.

Time narrows down to just him and James, tangled together on their bed and just kissing for the sake of it. It reminds Michael of first time they'd gone out with the intention of being more than friends, when they'd spent the evening kissing and talking well into the night. They'd caught a taxi back, both of a mind to take things all the way, yet hadn't made it any further than the sofa in James' living room. Losing himself in James is easy—until the sound of someone knocking at their front door shatters the moment.

Michael glances at the clock at the noise, trying to swiftly deduce who it might be and whether they warrant interrupting what he and James are doing. At this kind of time, nearly all of their friends are getting home from long days themselves, and those that aren't always call before dropping by. James entices Michael away from his contemplation and back to their kisses by sliding his foot up Michael's calf, hooking his ankles together and pulling Michael back towards him.

"Don't even think about it," James whispers the moment before their mouths meet. The door knocks again, causing James to groan. He buries his face in Michael's neck. "Just ignore it."

Michael pushes away from James, giving him one last peck on the lips as he slides from their bed. "Mrs. Roberts might need help pulling her cat from the cupboard again. Can't leave Whiskers to suffer, can we?" Buttoning his shirt and slipping on his flip-flops, he throws a last look over his shoulder. "Be back in a few."

"Do gooder," he hears James call after him.

*

Cat rescued and their neighbour placated for the time being, Michael heads back upstairs sooner than expected. Mrs. Roberts likes to chastise the pair of them for being too skinny, which usually follows her offering to spend the day cooking for them. He managed to avoid that tonight with a little white lie about James' health and needing him back as soon as possible. It really isn't that far from the truth; he thinks James will forgive him.

He locks up behind himself, and nearly falls over in the dark trying to get back to James. "All right," he says as he steps into their room, pulling his shirt up and over his head, and paying no attention to where it lands. "Whiskers is free to cause trouble once more and I convinced Mrs. Roberts she doesn't need to feed us. Where were we?"

James, as it turns out, is exactly where Michael left him: taking up most of the bed, bare chested and messy haired. Exactly where he left him, yet already well on his way to a good night's sleep.

Within moments, Michael is ready for bed himself and sliding in beside James, who throws an arm across his stomach.

"'Night," James mutters sleepily into Michael's chest. "And thank you."

In the dark, Michael smiles. "You can pay me back in the morning."

James chuckles, breath tickling Michael's skin once more. "I already set the alarm. An hour earlier do the trick?"

"I think we can work with that."

*

When the alarm sounds the next morning, Michael is the one to stick his arm out from the bed's warmth and stop its shrill noise; James doesn't so much as stir. Outside the private bubble of their bedroom, the world is already awake: traffic hums in the street below, although not quite loud enough to drown out the music coming from the flat upstairs. Michael's content to stay still for five minutes, listening to that and the comforting sound of James' steady breathing.

Some time in the night they'd separated, and James swapped his place on Michael's chest for more of the bed than someone his size needed. He'd kicked off the duvet though, so that was something with which Michael was left—that and James' cold feet seeking out his calves every few hours.

Michael rolls onto his side, considering what to do. Kissing James awake is a tempting notion, especially when he looks so perfect, just lying there asleep and beautiful and _Michael's_. But Michael, sap that he apparently is, doesn't have the heart to disturb him, despite their plans for this morning. There's plenty of time for them to do that this weekend.

Choosing to let James sleep, he slips out of bed silently, flexing his toes against the carpet. Mattress springs creak behind him as James rolls into the warm spot he vacated seconds ago. He watches as James slides his legs across the sheets and curls his arms around Michael's pillow, burying his face in the material.

In the hour he'd imagined doing other things, Michael tidies the kitchen, wishing he'd been able to resist James a little longer and done so last night. Once that tedious task is taken care of, the living room receives the same treatment. Michael moves James' empty cup and clears his DVDs from where they're spread in front of the TV—anything to stop their living room looking like a market stall.

After all of that, there's just enough time to make a cup of tea for them both before James stumbles, bleary-eyed and yawning widely, out of bed and into the kitchen. He slumps against the worktop, clutching gratefully at the cup Michael shoves under his nose, and is immediately apologetic.

"Sorry I missed our alarm," James mutters around the rim of his cup. "Yesterday obviously messed me around more than I thought."

Michael presses a kiss to James' temple as he wanders by to put the milk away. "Don't worry about it. It's the weekend; we have two days to fool around like teenagers."

James' smile is soft, grateful. "I like the sound of that."

"Thought you might," Michael replies with a wide grin.

"Well, then," James says, five minutes later when he's drained his cup and put it in the sink. "I'm going to have a shower so that we can get started." He raises an eyebrow, questioning. "You joining me this time?"

This time, Michael doesn't refuse. Seconds later, James lets out an undignified noise as his feet are lifted from the floor and Michael throws him over his shoulder. James protests loudly, demanding Michael stops hauling him around like this. Just before they reach the bathroom James manages to wriggle free of Michael's hold, finding himself back on solid ground once more.

Michael laughs as James shoves him gently. "You know you love me," he says, hands held up in surrender.

"Good thing, too," James replies. "Where would you be if I didn't?"

The question's a joke, just more of their usual playful banter, but Michael has no intentions of even thinking about it hypothetically. He kisses James instead, and leaves it at that.

When the door knocks minutes later, neither of them hear it; they're far too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to anything but the water beating down on their heads and the slide of skin on skin.

*


End file.
